Au Delà De La Douleur Que La Vie Apporte
by James Is A Dalek
Summary: Au delà de la douleur que la vie apporte, ma peinture brillera la vérité. Beyond the pain which life brings, my painting will shine the truth. [Everything sounds swish in French] [Angsty Turlough x Five]


"_This momentary joy breeds months of pain;  
This hot desire converts to cold disdain._  
- Lucrece; 690"

The Shakespearian quotation headed the the cream, card-like page of the sketch-book in sharp, italic script, tell-tale hints than the character set used wasn't the first learnt in certain letters, especially the vowels, with strange, pointed tails and dashes depicting another, alien language, the likes not seen by Earth before.

The Trion Alphabet differed vastly to that used on Earth; the closest match was indeed Russian, although that was a long way off. In his first years on the backwards, privative little planet, Turlough had struggled to come to terms with abandoning his native tongue in favor of that used by the English school boy. Even now, when he wasn't fully concentrating, a didactic mark not used in any language written by Humans slipping into his script.

Yet obvious care had been taken over the lettering, no falter or blot in the ink visible. Against the cream card, it was easy to see it hadn't been written in his usual, trusty blue Biro. It was calligraphic for a start; not overly decorative, but not written in the same style you'd write a note to be left pinned to the fridge. That suggested a finer, skill pen.

It would have been slightly odd to have taken that much care over a simple heading, had the rest of the page not bled the same minute attention to detail. Most of the space was taken up by a single drawing, applied to the page with several different caliber of pencil, just simple colors of pencil, but the shadows, the highlights had been labored over for hours. It was the closest thing to perfect Turlough could achieve, the cost of which still reminding him with every throb from the dull ache in his wrist.

But it still wasn't right.

If, perhaps, he had been studying his work with an artists' eye, Turlough might have noticed that it was far superior to the other sketches he had laid to paper recently. The attention to detail was almost painful; every button of the Doctor's shirt, every kink in his blond hair; each subtle shade of his jacket, each gentle blue in his eyes. Even the depicted schoolboy, he himself, was no longer the parody he found on each page of self-portrait, but, although it was clear the exact same care had been taken over this second figure, they seemed somehow different. It was clearly meant to be there, a part of the scene, but there was something... not quite the same, in the same way that one, effeminate figure in Da Vinci's 'Last Supper' isn't quite the same as the other disciples.

Thousands upon thousands of pages weren't to be written about the significance of this 'not quite the same', however. The drawing was what it was: torment through granite.

It was a stage. The ropes and pulleys were visible, and glaring spotlights threw the backdrop of the Tardis console out of the shadows. A set of black curtains were visible behind that backdrop, as it was held at an angle behind the two actors.

And oh, the actors. They lept of the page with striking vibrancy, as if they beloved in three dimensions rather than on a sketchbook's page. It would have been extraordinary, so great, had not the actions of the figures drawn the attention.

The first, with the cream jacket covering his shoulders, stood as straight as in the armed forces, his right hand holding a lavish golden mask, almost – but not quite – touching his face. He was indeed an actor, and he looked like he was playing his part well.

The second, with the darker blazer and disheveled school tie, stood with no mask. Both his hands were empty, and both his forearms resisted on the first character's shoulders. His lips were pressed to the mouth cut from the mask, and yet a slight frown crowned the ridge of his brow.

The Doctor had been playing a part. He hadn't.

The Time Lord had never made any advances, or even done anything to provoke them. He had; he had started the first kiss, he had pushed away the Doctor's jacket, he had pushed the Doctor into the Tardis console, he had--

So how could he turn around, just snap back and tell him he was too young?  
He hadn't been too young to give him what he wanted, to show him affection when he needed it most? He had been old enough to use, it seemed. And when it got too deep, too much for the Time Lord to handle, he was suddenly young enough to discard.

With a snort of disgust, Turlough threw down his pencil and grabbed the page in front of hip, a ripping down filling the room as he tore it from the binds, crumpling it. Discarding it.

The Trion threw the ball of paper into the corner of the room, and stood so abruptly his chair fell to the floor. A few moments later, harsh, bright light spilt over the room as the door was opened, but the door quickly clicked closed behind Turlough, and everything was thrown back into the sombre gloom.

-+-

When the Doctor was to enter, roughly five hours later, he would enter to a still empty room. The bed was unslept in, and there wasn't the usual pile of crumpled clothes.

After a few steps in, he will notice the crumpled paper ball, and inspect it as one might inspect a ticking briefcase. He will unfurl it slowly, and a sigh would pass his lips as he sees the picture. A relieved sigh – he knows Turlough isn't the kind of boy to take any rash actions after an argument, well... not as rash as pressing a razor against his pale, slender wrists. But the sight of an empty room, with no sign of the Trion for hours, would unsettle him considerably.

Another sigh will pass his lips as his eyes picked out the writing, and linked it quickly with the message the picture presented. This will be a sigh accompanied by a pained expression in his eyes.

He will smooth the paper absentmindedly between his fingers, fold it with a care, and slip it into his pocket.

The Doctor will then leave the room. No mention would ever be made of what he had seen, or indeed the argument.

No mention of being anything other than friends would ever be mentioned again, as the next destination of the Tardis would be Lanzarote.

From there, events will take Turlough back to his home planet. The Doctor will continue gallivanting around the galaxy with his new companion, and it will seem like he has forgotten the boy.

He hasn't.


End file.
